


teeth

by chaotichimbo



Category: Twilight Series - All Media Types, Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: Drama, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Family Angst, Flirting, Fluff, Light Angst, Nonbinary Character, Other, Slow Burn, and they use they/them pronouns, i will not tolerate any nonsense regarding that, like soap opera levels of drama, yeah main oc is non-binary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-19 01:40:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29991933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaotichimbo/pseuds/chaotichimbo
Summary: Tatum has never hated anyone; until they met Paul Lahote. He put them on edge until they could do nothing but grind their teeth into dust.
Relationships: Paul Lahote/Original Character(s)
Kudos: 9





	1. 00. the stars

He moves in sharp motions. He jerks and snaps and a growl comes from deep in his chest. And it's magnetic. When he rears his head back and bears his teeth, it pulls me closer to him. No matter how much I kick and scratch, I am dragged in his direction while dirt gathers under my nails.

Scraps tear up my elbows and my arms and the palms of my hand are bleeding and I am twisted in ways that are unnatural and even though I want to scream there is nothing left up in my lungs and I am resigned to silence. My eyes are shutting and I am acutely aware of the way the sun feels against my skin. It's strange. I'm not used to the sun and the warmth and the way it spreads all over me. I'm used to clouds and the rain hitting my knees and dripping down my shin.

I think that I am too young for this. I am too young for the pain that is ripping through me and I am too young to be dragged into the cosmic and violent fate that I found myself tangled up in. And when I think of him and the way he moves and his snarled lip, I think that maybe none of it was worth it.

But his lip is not always furled up, venomous and raging. He is gentle, too. Gentle when he holds me and gentle when he braids my hair and gentle when he whispers his truths into my ear. And even the ghost of the feeling I got when he tucked my hair behind my ear was enough to dull the pain, even just incrementally. I think that if I could replace all the time I spent hating him with loving him, than maybe things would be different.

Because when I look at him, I see stars. I see the constellation mapped out in his eyes. He is fire; he is warm and he is everything. And when he traces his lips over the hollows of my cheek and when his thumb drags down my bottom lip I think that I am capable of feeling a love so intense it could never be captured. It could never be replicated.

And as I am dying, I am clinging to that love and I am clinging to the shadows of his face. I think that a love like ours was born to burst, born to explode. A love like ours does not end quietly. But it always ends. I close my eyes, and I imaging that I am kissing him goodbye.


	2. 01. bikes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in the army now by joyce manor

I wish I got some sort of reward every time I had to say, "I'm not a girl." Like, if every time someone ignored my autonomy as a person and continued to impose their colonial view of gender on me, God got me an apology present. Or if the gender-imposing person had to dish out an extra twenty dollars my way every time they called me a girl. Then maybe, I'd be a lot more cool with it.

But usually, every time I say, "I'm not a girl," it can go a couple of ways. They can flinch, looking me up and down, examining the length of my hair and the softness in my face and decide that, sure, I'm not a girl. Whatever you say, honey. And then, continue on with their gendered nomenclature. Or, and this is the one I really hate, they can open their mouths with an apology and not shut it for another ten minutes. They get the water works all ready to go and they promise that they'll do better next time and they tell me they're working on themselves every day. They tell me, all red in the face, that they'll never misgender me ever again. They tell me that if they do, I can hit them. I can knock their teeth in and bury them alive. It takes them about five minutes to do it again.

This reporter lady, though, she's a different breed. I forget her name, it's something sad and generic and it probably starts with a C. I watch her. She thinks her role writing columns for the county newspaper is on par with the importance of the New York Times front page. The C-reporter is shrill and her lipstick spills onto her front tooth and she leans back in her chair, one finger looped around her coffee cup and her others right around a pen as she jots down details of my life. She's been asking me about my film and my crew and the actors and there's a way she flicks her tongue that makes me think she's looking for something deeper. "So Tatum," she says to me, wrinkly lips pursed, "how does a young lady such as yourself find herself directing a film with a three-thousand dollar budget?"

"Well," I tell C-reporter, fingers occupied with my own strawberry milkshake, "I'm not a young lady, as I have mentioned. But, in terms of the film budget, it's really all thanks to the community. Everyone just got together and worked as hard as we could to raise the money. We had bake sales, car washes, even auctions. Forks really came out for me," I tell her, smiling tightly.

She hums, tapping her pen against her yellow little notepad. "Now, you say that you're not a girl-"

"Because I'm not a girl."

"Do you feel that the torment over your gender identity has aided you in your artistic endeavors? Do you find that that pain transfers over when you write a script? When you emotionally guide your actors?" C-reporter asks, voice pressing and suggestive.

I wrap my lips around my straw and suck up the remainder of my milkshake, the loud slurring making C-reporter grimace. When the glass is empty, I lean back, hand over my stomach and I say to her, "No," I pause, and lean forward into her once more. "First off, I don't really feel any torment, over anything really. Second, my screenplay is about the American obsession and commodification of tragedy, case and point. It's not really that connected to the lack of torment of a gender identity I'm very comfortable with."

C-reporter halts, holding her coffee to her lips. "Is it possible that you could have just repressed all the pain that comes along with a female identity?"

"Hmm, again, I'm gonna have to go with no." I bit my lip, and my phone goes off, alarm blaring and shrill like her. Smiling, I hold it in front of her face. "Sorry," I say, grabbing my backpack and board out from underneath our booth. "Gotta go." I stand, slapping a ten dollar on the table. And as I'm leaving, I turn to her and say, "Looking forward to the article!"

I can't get out of there fast enough.

Ice makes for a challenge. My wheels are worn down and in desperate need of replacement, just like the rest of my board, so one little patch of ice will launch me back on my ass. I have to weave between the loose gravel and those wet little devil patches. I take up the whole road. Cars love driving behind me.

I kick off the ground, leaning forward to curve with the road. There's always something about skating down the perfectly paved roads of Forks with the icy wind whipping my hair behind me that makes me feel far removed from myself, far more special than I am. It's the hair, I think. It's that natural shade of red that gets you bullied when you're a kid, but with a special little twist. I have this natural white streak that falls in my face. I was born with it, and it's just always been there. So when my weird head of hair floats behind me and gets tangled up and wild, I start to feel like I'm flying. I start to feel a little whimsical.

Everywhere I need to get to is, at most, a twenty minute ride. And even though the cold air rips through me in the winter months, I'd take this ratty old skateboard over some beat up old car any day. Everyone has a car around here. Not everyone can do an ollie.

I'm thinking about all the things I have to do and all the places I have to be when I step off my board and kick it under my arm. And I know that no matter the things I have to do and the places I have to be at, I always make time for this two-story white house. For the past five or so months, I've spent my afternoons there, almost becoming more familiar with this house than my own. Because on the second floor, leaning out that window and staring into the yard, was a despondent and absolutely wrecked Bella Swan.

With confidence, I push through the front door and drop my board on top of the muddy and wrinkled old boots. The noise of some game of some sport is booming from the living room. Kicking my own shoes off, I make my way over to the living room and lean against the doorway.

Charlie Swan leans deep into his arm chair, can of beer in his hand. He doesn't turn around but, as if he can sense my magnetic presence, he says, "Copeland. I see you're here. Again. You left your skateboard outside, I hope."

Charlie's my favorite dad, including my own. "What's up Charlie?" I ask, moving to sit in the couch across from him. "Did you have a good day imposing the will of the ruling class on disenfranchised communities?"

"Well, that depends," he says, shifting around to throw me a disapproving look. "Is the will of the ruling class picking roadkill off the sidewalk? Because if so, no, I did not."

"How's she doing?" I ask, crossing my arms and leaning back into the couch.

This makes him sigh. Bella's his favorite kid, which is fair, because she's actually his kid. I can see the worry he has for her on his face. It makes me look tired, worn down. "You know how she's been," he says, frowning. "Her mother and I, well, we're thinking about sending her down to Jacksonville."

"To live with Renée?" I exclaim. "No, c'mon Charlie, Renée's a terrible mother. " And it's true, from what Bella's told me, her mother was far more concerned with whatever whim she decides to act on than the well-being over her own daughter.

"Watch it."

"You can't do that to Bella. For real. If anything that'll just make her _more_ depressed," I assert. "You think it's not possible but trust me, it'll happen."

Charlie looks at me, lips pursed tightly and hands up, like he's given up. "I don't know what else to do here, Tate. Look, I don't want her to leave either. But the way she's living, it's not healthy. She never sees her friends or leaves the house. And maybe if she could get some separation..."

I stand. "Give me a chance to get her living again," I argue, panic starting to set in at the idea of Bella moving to live with her mother, who is incompetent at best, in Florida, which is the worst state. "How about I take her out this weekend? We'll go see a movie in Port Angeles and have some good, clean Kosher fun."

He sighs. "If it works, it works."

"Great," I tell him, but I'm already bounding towards the stairs, taking three steps at a time and thinking about how the fuck I'm gonna convince Bella to leave the house after all these months.

Bella Swan moved next door to me about a year ago, coming up from Arizona with nothing but a cactus and a bad attitude. And from the moment I met her, awkwardly getting pelted with volleyballs and unrequited advances from the boys in town, I knew that she would be my best friend. I've always liked Bella. I like how she's so smart but also so oblivious. I like that she's quietly funny and a little bit judgmental. And I get along with everyone. I get along with stoners and preps and jocks and quite kids who keep their nose in their trig homework. I get along with the sharp and standoffish Lauren Mallory. I even got along with the scowling blonde Rosalie Hale and her giant boyfriend Emmett before they up and left. But Bella was reluctant to engage. Becoming her friend was a challenge, one that I conquered through persistent requests to hang out and randomly showing up at her house. And eventually she started driving me to school. We ate lunch together and occasionally, we'd venture out of the town limits together.

The more time I found myself spending with Bella, the more I realized that I didn't just like her because her initial indifference towards me was an exciting challenge, but because she was refreshing. She was different from everyone else in this town, from everyone I've lived with my whole life. Anyone could tell that she wasn't from around her, and it was nice to be around her, cause I always felt like _I_ was the odd one out in this town. Me and Bella, we could be different together.

And even when Bell started dating moody and reserved Edward Cullen and started spending _far_ less time with me, I wasn't really that bitter. I had a lot going on. I always do. I still bothered Bella with my presence as much as I could.

But then, he left. The whole family just up left, and I never figured out what happened. But I knew that Bella was wrecked and empty and left with nothing from it. Bella Swan stopped being the scoffing girl with a half assertive attitude, but the person who lay in front of me now.

Her eyes are heavy and they weigh down the rest of her face. Her arms are skinny and tight around her chest and while I'm staring at her, I'm thinking that I can't remember the last time she moved from that spot. She's withering away in her own room, and I can't ever imagine loving someone so much that them leaving would kill me like this. But Bella really loves Edward, so much so that I think that, even if he left, he couldn't have been that bad.

"Hey, champ," I greet her, moving to sit at the edge of her bed. She doesn't move, like her dad, and she doesn't acknowledge my presence in her room. I mean, I've been doing this almost every day since she fell into this little depression. By now, she should be used to it. "You wanna go for a walk or something today? Or do you just wanna sit there and let your bones turn into jelly?"

Bella opens her mouth to speak and her voice is croaky and distance. "I wanna stay," she says, eyes trained on the same spot they're always fixated on. I wonder if she sees anything. She doesn't say anything about the jelly bones.

"Hmmm. I figured," I say, and then drop down onto her bed, staring at her ceiling. "How was your day?" I ask her, knowing the answer.

She shrugs, still refusing to make eye contact with me. "This. Did you go to your um, interview thing?" Bella asks and I'm surprised she remembered.

I let out a heavy sigh. "Oh, yeah. But you know how it is. She called me a girl a whole bunch and tried to profit off a fictional gender dysphoria she created, thus proving the point of my entire film." Bella doesn't say anything to that point, just scoffs lightly. "You can still be in it, if you want," I tell her. "I know you don't really like speaking roles, but I'm always in need of people to play dead bodies."

"Nah, that's, um, just not really my things," she responds, and it's the same thing she tells me every time I ask her.

I nod. "Well, maybe you could be my A.D. Wes is great as like, a cameraman, but he really sucks at being my A.D."

"I wouldn't have any idea what I was doing," she admits.

I frown, rolling around my head around on her pillow. It's uncomfortable and deflated. "Your dad says you might have to move down to Jacksonville with your mom."

At my words, Bella's up in arms. She's standing and holding onto her chest and this is the most alive I've seen her in a while. "What? He said that?" And Bella tells me, "No, no, I'm staying, I wanna stay," and she keeps asserting that over and over again and I'm leaning up on my elbows, watching. Bella's strange. She's transfixed on something that is long gone and holding onto the pain as if it is her last tie to him. "Why does he want me to go?"

I tilt my head at her and wonder if she sees what we all see when she looks in the mirror. "He's worried. You never like, go out anymore or see anyone and you don't even have interest in anything anymore. I mean, you gotta admit that it's concerning."

Bella sucks in air and looks at me with worried eyes. "I see you. I see you all the time. You come over like, everyday."

"I don't think that counts."

Bella waves her arms around. "It should!"

"Look, you're my best friend, Bella, and I don't want you to leave either. So why don't you just like, try? Come see a movie with me this weekend, and I'll try to make it fun."

And with a slight nod of her head, Bella Swan confirms, and I grin.

I'm there for a while, forcing Bella to engage with me, one way or another. Sometimes, it makes me feel bad. I know she just wants to be left alone, sitting there in silence, alone with her pain. And for a while, I was fine with that. I thought that she needed her time to heal and to grieve. But that time went from a week to a few weeks and a few weeks turned into a month, I decided she had crossed the boundary from typical mourning to unhealthy obsession. And I'm not even sure if my intrusion was helping or not, but I never felt good about leaving Bella alone like that.

When the sun starts to set, though, I tell Bella I gotta go home. I promise her I'll be back, and I leap down the stairs to give Charlie my goodbyes, and I leave. With my board in my hand and bag over my shoulder, I walk fifty feet away from Bella's house and into my front door.

My house is cute; it's quaint and potted plants line the walkway to our front door. It's painted blue, chipped up with white shutters that makes it look like it should be on some New England shore instead of in a gloomy and rainy little town. It's where I've lived my whole life, with my dad and without my mother.

I feel bad for my dad sometimes. Lane Copeland uprooted his entire life for this tiny little redheaded Jewish woman from Newark. He left the reservation his tribe had lived on for almost all of time, cut ties with his family, and abandoned the live he had always known. And what did he get in return? A divorce just one year later, a fuck ton of debt, and custody over me. I don't know where my mom went, I barely remember her. I just know that her leaving left my dad changed forever.

And, of course, it brought the addition of Embry Call into our family.

I think that Embry was kind of raised on the idea that he was bred from a mistake, and that's a point over which we bond. I came from a failed marriage that ended in a violent hatred and he came from a night of drunken carelessness. And we both know that if our parents had made wise choice and did what they wanted to do, then we wouldn't be here.

My half-brother lives on the reservation with his mom, but he sure as hell loves to make himself at home here. Him and my dad are close, and I think my dad pours so much of his parenting energy into Embry because he wants to compensate for the mistake of breaking his mother's heart. He doesn't seem interested in doing that with me.

They're sitting at the kitchen table when I walk in. They're laughing while something steams on the stove. "Hey Dad, Em," I say, walking straight to the fridge for a cold can of an energy drink. "What's up?"

"Tate, what the hell are you doing drinking an energy drink? It's almost nine" my dad says, watching me pour the content down my throat.

I swallowed. "I need the energy. We're filming a night scene and I'll probably be up 'til like, four in the morning or something."

Embry chuckled. "Do you ever sleep, Tate, or are you always doing something to avoid the hellish nightmare of your reality?"

"Do you sleep, Embry? You look like shit," I tease, and my dad frowns. "That reminds me, you wanna be my A.D? I need an an A.D. My current one sucks."

"No, I don't wanna be your A.D, whatever that is," Embry says. "I have a lot already going on."

"Making out with Jacob Black is a huge responsibility. Does Quil get jealous?"

My dad gives me a pointed look and says, "Tatum, you can't stay out all night. It's dangerous out there. Why didn't you ask?"

"Dad, I'm gonna be with a group of people and I have like, pepper spray, I'll be fine."

"Yeah, Dad, they'll be fine. What's the worst that could happen? They're just gonna wander out into the woods after midnight with a group of incompetent teenagers with nothing but a can of pepper spray that expired a year ago," Embry laughs, gently nudging my dad's shoulders.

"Shut up, Em."

My dad shakes his head. "Just stay safe, alright? And try to stay near the house. Keep your phone on you and-"

"Dad."

"And don't forget, if someone tries to take you, hit them in the throat."

"No one's gonna try to take me, Dad."

Embry adds, "Yeah, you have nothing to worry about. Tatum's too annoying for anyone to kidnap."

With a roll of my eyes, I walk out of the kitchen, trying to ignore the muffled laughter that followed me up the stairs.

* * *

"Well that sucked," I tell Bella, walking out of the theater with my hands shoved deep into my jacket pockets. And I wanna rip the head off of whatever pretentious, cannabis filled director and the money-hungry producer for making a movie so catastrophically bad that it might have made me as equally depressed as Bella. "I mean, not to be constantly talking about this, but think about the movie _I_ could make with that budget. Like, sometimes it feels like they're just making garbage on purpose."

Bella nods, but she's far off from here. I feel like she's a step behind me no matter how much I slow my walk. She says to me, "Yeah it was pretty garbage."

Her film analysis skills used to be a bit sharper than this, I note. "I don't think I've seen a movie this bad since we bootlegged that one about the killer Thanksgiving turkey."

She snorts. " _Thankskilling_. Yeah, I remember."

"I'm glad you came out with me today, even if the movie was a disgusting abuse of cinematic resource," I tell her, smiling. And I mean it. Even though she only let the house under the threat of being relocated to the wettest armpit of the continent, I'm thinking that this is the first step towards Bella being Bella again. I'm hopeful that from here, she's gonna finally start moving on from Edward. It's a start.

"Sure," she says, and I know it's not much but the small, barely visible smile on her face is enough to let me know that this is an improvement. A tiny one, albeit, but still an improvement.

And I'm distracted from this small moment of semi-contentment by the whopping and hollering of a group of men, standing down the street at the bottom of a hill. My noses scrunches up in disgust while the yell towards the two of us, begging for our company and bribing us with booze. "Assholes," I say, looking to Bella for agreement. But Bella doesn't hear me. She's halted, standing still behind me like she's frozen, staring down at those men like she's got a bad idea."What's up?"

Bella's not looking at me but at the group of older men with their bikes and their beers. Her eyes are all glossed over. She's somewhere other than here. "I think I know those guys."

I'm looking back and forth between Bella and the guys and I'm hoping that she's joking. "You mean that group of greasy men in their thirties?" I ask, concern in my voice. I don't like where she's going with this and I don't even know _why_ she's going there.

"Yeah," Bella says, already stepping forward. "I'll be right back," she tells me, and she's headed their way.

In the time that I've known her, Bella's never been reckless. She's been quite and careful hesitant around strangers. And even though she's better at falling than standing up straight, I never would've imagined that during a night out, just the two of us, it would be _Bella_ to put herself in danger. So for a second, I'm just standing there, watching as she trots down the hill and into the group of men that made alarm bells ring off in my head. And then, I'm thinking, _holy shit, holy shit, holy shit,_ while I run behind her, trying to catch up. "Bella! What are you doing?"

She tosses me an easy, "Don't worry about it!" while her hair tumbles down her back and lifts in the wind.

I'm panicking. I'm picking up speed and I don't know how it happened but now, I can't catch up with Bella's pace. "Can we just turn around, please? We can go get like, burgers or something. I don't know, I feel like any other idea would be better than this."

But Bella snaps. She turns, walking backwards while she says, "Tatum, just stop, alright? I'll be fine."

And by the time I catch up to her, she's getting on the bike of some comb-over fuck with a leather jacket that hangs loosely off his gross and old body.

I gape at her, watching in horror while she holds onto his torso and the engine revs and suddenly Bella Swan has disappeared on the bike of some random asshole. And I think, standing in the middle of the street, Charlie Swan is going to kill me.

I'm motionless, standing in the middle of the street, staring at the spot where Bella just was. And then, another one of the biker boys says to me, "What about you? You want a ride?"

"Oh, fuck off."

Music plays in my head. I loop songs in my mind over and over while I lean against a brick wall, trying not to think of what could be happening to her and why the fuck she would do what she did. But no matter how loudly I play it, my stomach still knots up as I imagine sitting in a police interview room, explaining to a bunch of cops why I let my depressed friend get on the motorcycle of some stranger. And the knots tangle even more when I imagine that, but with Charlie.

The most fucked up thing about it is that this was supposed to make Bella feel _better_. And I'm not a psychiatrist but I figured that Bella being holed up in her room all day might be just a little bit healthier than hanging out with predatory old men on what her father would call a death machine.

So when Bella stumbles back over in my direction, no longer on a motorcycle but on her own two legs, I think I might bit her head off. I rush towards her. "Hey, Bella, what the hell was that?" I ask, struggling to keep my voice low.

Bella shakes her head. "I dunno I just, thought I knew those guys. It seemed like fun."

"Fun? _Fun?"_ I almost scream. "Bella, usually fun things don't involve getting yourself killed by dudes that look like guest starts on _To Catch a Predator."_

"It was a just a rush," Bella says, and I don't think that she's talking to me but saying it to herself, like she's come to some sort of grand realization.

And I think that hanging out with Bella Swan might end up killing me.

* * *


	3. 02 papers

Mooney Vasquez is an angel in front of the camera. Her soft, brown curls stick to the wet tears that fell down her face, while her voice creaks and chokes over her lines. Or she lets out laughter that sounds like bells in the boom mic, with a smile that is warm and inviting and feels as natural as the clouded lighting on her face. Mooney could be covered in fake and sticky blood or dried and cracking mud and she will still exude an energy that is more believable than reality.

So I'm not sure why the fuck she can't get this scene down.

"Hey, Moon," I call at her from my spot behind the camera, "how about next time you do that scene you actually do it like, I dunno, good? Right now I could put a plank of wood in front of the camera and get the same results."

She glares at me, throwing her perfect curls over her shoulder. With the six or seven actors I have on set, I thought Moon would kill it. The girl thrives off attention. But her words kept coming off stiff and uninterested, and for the first time we've ever worked together, I could tell she was acting. "Well maybe I could act out the scene if the screenplay didn't read like it wasn't written like a twelve-year-old."

"Then why don't you go work with one of the other directors here in Forks?" I ask. "Oh, wait, am I the only one? That's right, I'm the only one. We're running it again. Go to your marks."

They stumble around, dead body extras collapsing into the parking lot ground wherever their colored tape lay. Moon gives me a big eye roll before she drags her feet all the way back to the edge of the soccer field. And I'm frustrated. It's four in the afternoon and I'm biting down on my lip, thinking about how bad this whole goddamn scene is gonna be if no one's willing to get their shit together.

I haven't been getting much sleep, not since I watched Bella slid her leg over the seat of that stupid goddamn motorcycle. It keeps replaying in my head and I can't help but think about all the things that could've happened to her because I couldn't stop her. And Bella's fine, at least comparatively, like that little stunt made her feel some weird sense of happiness again. But that isn't going anything to help me.

"Hey, Tatum. I think maybe this scene would work better if we took the camera off the tripod and panned back and forth while Moon stumbles around the set. You know like, giving off a feel of uncertain instability, or whatever."

Wes Dreyer is the only person in this godforsaken town with any sort of artistic sense. He is also the only person with a trust fund big enough to provide a boom mic and a 4K Canon camcorder. Me, him and Mooney used to go out into the mouth of trails with a cheap little camera and a two page script and Moon would pretend to be a lost fairy. Ever since then, we never really stopped. And I think that even though I'm kinda the face of this whole operation, what with the interviews and the fundraising and all of that, but everything would fall about without Wes. Way faster than I'm willing to admit.

Moon, though, I'm getting real tired of her.

"Wes, your hands shake like you just had fourteen Red Bulls and a bottle of Adderall. Keep the camera on the tripod until we get a stabilizer," I tell him, eyes tight on one of the extras, a blond boy with a wide face and too-blue eyes. "Who is he?" I ask, pointing a finger in his direction.

Wes follows the direction my finger is in and says, "Oh, Mike Newton. Jock-type. He gave me twenty dollars during casting to make him an extra."

I frown. "What the fuck, Wes?" I mumble, and then shout at the blond boy, "Hey Mike!" He whipped around, looking at me with some dumb grin. "I don't know if you've ever seen a dead body, but they don't typically blink. If you keep it up, you're off set and Wes won't give you your twenty back."

"Why are you being such a hardass today, Tate?" Mooney yells. She's sitting on the ground with fake blood pooling from her head and dirt smudged on her face.

One of the dead bodies, I don't know their name, rolls over on their mark and frowns at me. "Yeah, Tatum you kind of suck today."

"I'm not being a hardass. You guys are just doing a really bad job at literally everything right now and not even coming close to my expectations. Alright? I'm not asking for much just do everything perfectly every single time."

Wes leans in and whispers in my ear, "Tatum, that's kind of being a hardass."

"Just go again!" I yell, feeling overwhelmed with frustration. I want to rip my hair out by it's root.

That frustration is still present after I yell _action_ and Moon starts stumbling around the set like she's lost at the mall and not like she just witnessed the massacre of everyone she's ever known and loved. And I'm standing there, arms crossed and scowl prominent, wondering if any of them know the sheer significance of this scene. I mean, I explained it to them about twenty fucking _million_ times, and I thought that they would have some semblance of an idea of what to do, but still, they were clueless.

And I mean, I know I'm being harsh on them. But when I think about all the money the town of Forks flooded into my budget, it sets my nerves on fire and I wonder if my expectations are even high enough. I think that maybe it's not that I care too much but that no one else cares _enough._

Moon follows her marks, stumbling and stepping over dead bodies on her way towards the camera. And as she's getting closer, with a dazed look on her face, her foot catches on the leg of a twitching Mike Newton. I groan. "Holy fucking shit," Wes whispers under his breath, and I'm glad to hear his audible disappointment. "I think this is our worst day on set yet."

Moon just lies there, face down and breathing deeply and I think she knows how much I'm gonna yell when she stands back up. No one moves. "I think I might silt someone's throat." A shrill, ringing alarm cut through the silence on the set, and my actors jumped. "My bad!" I yelled, pulling my phone out my pocket and silencing the alarm. "And that's a wrap for today. We'll pick this up later in the week. Hopefully then you'll all remember how to act."

"Aw, is it time for you to go fuck Bella Swan already?" Moon teases, standing up and brushing off her jeans.

I frown, scooping up my board and pointing a figure at her. "Moon, I know you think you're irreplaceable, but I swear to god I will put Wes in front of the camera if you keep pissing me off." I drop my board and step on it, turning to Wes. "Will you be nice to them after I leave so no one quits?" I ask, voice low.

"Yeah," Wes agrees, "I'll tell them you have crabs."

"Absolutely do not do that. I'll kill you," I threaten. "Just, tell them we'll buy a pizza next time we film? Alright. No crabs, Jesus."

I'm rolling out of the Forks High School parking lot before he can respond.

Bella's trademark truck isn't in the driveway by the time I'm kicking up my board under my arm in front of her house. I tilt my head. Bella's truck was always in the driveway is _always_ in the driveway because Bella is _always_ home. And I'm hoping that maybe it broke down or Charlie was replacing it with a car that could go over fifty miles an hour. I leave my board up against the front porch and let myself in the front door.

Charlie's there, sitting in the kitchen with a newspaper in his hand. And when he sees me walk into his kitchen, he says, "Copeland. Bella's not here."

I'm taken aback, almost flinching at the words. "She's not?" I ask, somewhat unable to believe it. The only times Bella's not at home is when she's at school or working at the stupid outdoor supply store.

"Yeah, I guess you're little night out helped," he replies easily, not looking up at me yet.

I lean against the counter. "Well, where is she?"

Charlie sighs and puts his newspaper down on the kitchen table. "She's over at the res, hanging out with Jacob Black. You know him. He's friends with your brother, I think."

"Oh," I let out, arms crossed. I like Jacob Black enough, I guess. We hang out sometimes when I go and visit Em on the reservation. I hadn't been over there in a while, seeing as I packed up my schedule with filming and fundraising and stupid pointless interviews and time with Bella. And I guess that all that effort I put into getting Bella to interact with me worked, in a way, because she was, at least, interacting with _someone._

"Right, so," Charlie said, and used his newspaper to gesture towards the door.

I roll my eyes. "Relax, I'm leaving. But I'll be back," I warn, giving Charlie one last look before I step out the door. He grunts in response, and I leave the Swan house with a mix of emotions I wasn't exactly enjoying.

* * *

 _"'Am I a girl or am I an artist? Local teen girl uses movie-making as a means to cope with the heartbreaking pain of gender dysphoria,'"_ I read off the newspaper article, eyes tracing over the word rapidly. "I mean, this has to be a joke, right?"

Embry snorts, pulling the newspaper out from under my grip. He read, "' _Tatum Copeland, a girl wrecked by confusion, finds that filmmaking gives her a fleeting sense of control over her life of chaos.'_ Wow, Tate, this is genuinely the worst thing I have ever read."

I groan, letting my head drop against kitchen table. "Em, she called me a girl throughout the _entire_ article. She didn't even talk about my script!"

"Who cares?" my half-brother countered. "It's not like anyone reads the newspaper anymore except for like, old people. And besides, everyone already knows you're not a girl. It's not like some stupid article by some random lady is gonna make everyone think differently of you." He pauses, and then crumbles up the newspaper in his hands before tossing it over to the trash.

My face is in my hands and I'm thinking about everyone reading that article and forever having an image of me as something I'm not. And I think at some point during the interview, I should've predicted this outcome. Still, I want to wring out the reporters neck. "Should I like, sue her?"

"Do you want me to get Quil so he can egg her house or like, kill or something? Either is an option, I think Quil would do anything to impress you at this point."

"No, and can you _please_ tell Quil that it's never gonna happen?" I ask, thinking of the short boy that's had a crush on me ever since we were kids. I never reciprocated. "The constant persistence is making Parker uncomfortable."

Embry rests his chin on his hand. "Hmm. No. Because I hate-

"Because you hate Parker."

"Yes."

"Well, either get over it or leave," I tell Embry, "because he's coming over later tonight. I haven't been able to see him recently because my schedule is made for an insane person."

Embry frowns. He's always hated Parker and everything about him, from the moment he walked through the door to meet my family. "Why do you even hang around that absolute _geed_ anyways?"

"Because he's my boyfriend and I love him."

" _Because his my boyfriend and I love him,"_ Embry mocks, voice hitched up an octave. "Get better taste. That guy fucking sucks. You know," he starts, and leans in towards me, "you should start spending more time down at the res. You're never around anymore, Jake and Quil miss you, and right now you're so tightly wound I'm afraid you're gonna snap and stab someone."

The mention of Jacob Black brings my thoughts back to Bella. I wonder what she's doing down there with him, and it stirs up something inside of me. It's not that I'm exactly _jealous,_ but I'm trying to think of what makes Jacob Black so special that Bell will get out of bed for him, but not for me, even after months of begging. I just don't really understand it, and it leaves me feeling uneasy. "I'll make time," I tell him to appease him and then I say, "Did you know Bella's down there hanging out with him today?"

Embry rolls his eyes. "Yeah, Jake wouldn't shut up about it. He's got like, a major crush on her. Me and Quil went down there today and gave him a hard time over it."

I nod, taking in that information with a nod. "Jake knows she's still not over that Cullen kid, right? Like, if he tries to make any moves on her, he's gonna set himself up for failure."

"I dunno," he says, "Bella looked super happy with him. Actually smiling and stuff, nothing like you described her."

I don't know what to do with the image of Bella laughing and smiling in Jake's garage, alive and looking like a person. I imagine the Bella that I knew almost a year ago, with a slight smile and quick quips, not the girl who got onto the bike of stranger. And I don't want to admit that it doesn't make me feel as happy as it should.

* * *

Parker plays with the loose strands of hair that fall from my ponytail. My back's pressed up against his chest and we're sitting on my bed and my dad doesn't know he's here. "You know why I love you?" he asks suddenly.

I tap on the keys of my laptop, staring at the document I hadn't made a change on in at least forty-five minutes. "Because I put out on our first date?"

He scoffs, gently shoving me. Parker and I had been dating for a while, around six months, I thought, and from the beginning, I've been content. I like to think of Parker as the perfect boyfriend; he's never late for dates, he helps me with my homework, and he pretends my entire family doesn't hate his guts. I mean, of course he has his flaws, and they've come up every now and again and we'll argue for a while over things I can't remember. But he's really, _really_ good at being a boyfriend. And sometimes, when he sneaks into my bedroom and holds me while I work on projects, I think that maybe I can fall in love with him the way he loves me. "No, not that. I love you because you're the most special person I have ever met in my entire life. You're like, made of star dust or something."

"I'm not putting that line in one of my films, if that's what you're trying to do here," I tease, leaning back to look him in the eye.

Parker has pretty eyes. That's another one of my favorite things about him. His eyes are warm like caramel, and he has this cute little dimples that pop up when he gives me one of his wide grins. Parker's cute, with his curly hair and his clear skin and I run my thumb over his cheek. "Can't I just compliment my significant other without any ulterior motive?"

I lean up and place a peck on his cheek. "You can, you've just never done it before."

He chuckles, placing a few scattered kisses on my face. "Well, get used it," he says in between his delicately placed kisses, "because I love you, Tate, and all your stardust."

* * *

I tap my foot against the ground, anxious looking around Jacob Black's property. It took me so long to get here and now my legs are sore and achy and I'm dreading having to skate all the way back here. And after a few seconds of standing there, thinking about leaving, the door opens, and I am shocked to take in the sight of Jacob Black.

He's bigger than I remember, the muscles in his arms apparent from even under his shirt and he's about five inches taller than when I last saw him. Jacob smiles when he sees me. "Oh, hey Tate," he greets, "what's up?" he asks.

I swallow the lump in my throat and say to him, "I was actually wondering if we could, um, talk about Bella?"

Jake frowns, confused. "Um, yeah sure. Come on in, I guess."

The Black house is small but welcoming and it smells of pine and clean sheets and I sit on the couch, nervously shaking my legs. Jacob sits across from me in an arm chair, and I think that if I were him, I'd be confused to. It must have been before the Cullen's left and Bella broke down that I last saw Jake. We used to be close, or at least, he used to be someone I could sporadically call to spend time with. Things just changed; there was no falling out or anything, we just sort of drifted. "So, what about Bella?" Jake asks.

"Um," I start, looking around his house. And suddenly I don't know what I'm suppose to say or even why I'm saying it and I wonder if I should just get up and leave. But I think of the dead look in Bella's eyes and I say, "I just heard that you and her were hanging out again from Embry, and I dunno. The past couple months, with everything going on, I guess I've just gotten pretty protective over her. And I know Em said you always kinda had crush on Bella-"

"Where are you going with this, Tate?" Jake asks, his voice light like he's just joking, but I think he might be as nervous as I am.

I blow out air. "I don't mean to sound like a dick or anything," I assure him, "I'm just worried about her, after everything that's happened with Edward, and it's been super hard on her and she's been acting weird and reckless lately and I just don't want anything bad to happen to her."

"So you think I'm gonna do something bad to her?"

"No," I rush out, "I just wanted to like, let you know how fragile she is. And just to keep that in mind as you, um, proceed."

Jake studies me, watching my shaking legs and the way I chew on my tongue. "You don't have anything to worry about," he reassures me. "I'm not gonna do anything stupid. We both want the same thing, I think."

"To see Bella happy again?"

He nods. "Exactly."

I smile at him. "Good. Because I don't think I can handle it if it gets any worse than this."

* * *


	4. 03. tables

Quil's in my kitchen.

I don't know what he's doing there but I'm not particularly happy about it. When I see him, slumped in our wooden chair with his backpack spilling its contents on our floor, I groan. He shows up a lot when he knows Embry's not here, grinning and flexing and being so dedicated to poorly flirting with me until the point I couldn't even tell if it was a bit or not. And it's not that I don't like Quil. I mean, the bit gets old sometimes but he's funny and he's a good friend to my brother and to me too. But it's seven in the morning and I have no caffeine and I can't deal with anything right now. "What are you doing here, Ateara?"

He jumps at the sound of my voice, sitting up straight and suddenly grinning and I wonder if he was drifting asleep there and how he even got in here in the first place. "Tatum," he says, posturing, voice in a lower octave than what was natural for him. "It's been a while."

"What are you doing in my house?" I ask again, tone harsher this time than I mean it to be as I open the fridge and reaching for an energy drink. I'm basically useless without one. And like, three thousand times more irritable. I'm evolutionary too strong for coffee.

And while I'm cracking open the can and guzzling it down, Quil grins so large he might crack his cheeks open. "I just wanted to spend some time with my favorite and cutest person. It's been a while, and I know you probably miss me, baby." I give him a glare, eyes narrowed and stance rigid, and he sighs. "I was supposed to drive Em to school but he's not at his mom's. Figured he'd be here."

I shrug, tapping my fingers against the metal can. "Well, he's not. I haven't seen him in a couple days. I think he's mostly just been at his mom's."

My words make him flinch and something shifts and suddenly all the playful energy has vacated his expression. "So you don't know where he is?" Quil asked, leaning forward in the kitchen chair.

I toss him a frown. "Don't make me say the line. He probably just left already or something, I dunno." This doesn't seem to satisfy him. Quil's just frowning and crossing his arms, twisting his features around like he's deep in thought and his eyes are far off. He looks empty. I roll my eyes and clap my hands in front of his face, making him jump. "Quil! What's up buddy? What's going on in there?"

He shakes his head. "Can you call your dad?"

"Why would I call my dad?" I ask, energy drink to my lips and eyes on the clock. I got time.

"I dunno," he says, shrugging, "it's just like, weird. He's been like this a lot lately."

"Really?" I ask, lips to the can. I'm not really concerned because I think that Embry's a tough kid and Quil's a little too astute for his own good so I think the problem might be a little bit made up. But there's an edge to the tone of his voice. "I try not to pay attention to him."

Quil frowns. "Seriously, Tate. He's been like, acting really weird."

I'm leaning against the counter and frowning at Quil because normally he can't go around three seconds without throwing some overused line in my direction and his face is twisted up in concern like he's actually, really worried and that's the most out of character thing I'd ever seen from Quil. So I ask, "Weird like how?"

He shakes his head and leans back and I know it's serious from the way he doesn't even look at me when I talk. "I dunno. I don't know how to describe it. You should just like, talk to him, alright? When you can," he adds, and stands suddenly. "He hasn't really been talking to me or Jake or anyone. Maybe he'll talk to you."

"Sure, that's not weird or cryptic at all," I tell him, my foot impatiently tapping against the floor. "But, yeah, I'll talk to him."

Quil moves from his spot in the kitchen towards the front door and he's walking past me as he says, "Just let me know, alright?"

And he's gone, leaving me standing alone in the kitchen with a crooked feeling in my gut.

* * *

I'm chewing on the bottom of my lip and staring off into the empty table that the Cullen's used to occupy during every lunch period. They would sit there, still and statuesque, not eating and not blinking and not paying attention to the world around them. And now that they were gone, there was nothing in their space and I wondered if anyone would ever sit in their space again. People always stayed away from them and now they're avoiding their memory. Because even though the Cullen's were beautiful and mesmerizing, there was something lingering under their eyes and something cold about the way their lips molded into smiles.

They existed in such a different world than the rest of us; isolated and alone. Cultish, almost. Like they weren't a family, but something else. Something else dangerous and uninviting. Something that moved harshly and unnaturally. I think that everyone felt that way, felt the urge to avoid them and their lunch table but they never really chalked it up to anything other than the bizarre way they acted and presented. I remember the way my the hairs stood on the back of my neck when they first arrived in the white lights of the cafeteria and how my back arched in whenever I felt them walk behind me.

I remember the protective instinct I felt whenever Bella's gaze lingered on the redheaded one for too long and I remember how I would step my foot in front of her whenever I felt he was getting too close and I remember how uneasy I felt when she drove back down to Arizona and arrived home with broken bones and stitches. I don't know him, and I never did, but I know that the place where they once sat was vacated like the harshness of them lingered there and I know that that means either there is something about them or I am insane.

Embry told me one time that everyone on the res felt the way I did. He said the Cullen's weren't allowed anywhere near the reservation. He told me that the boys he went to school with act strange and distant and he said that the Cullen's presence put them on edge and they would linger in the woods and ignore the people they love. And I used to laugh when he told me about it and pretend that I didn't feel the way he knew I felt but when I stare at the empty table it makes more sense to me. I think that if Embry was telling the truth that the res should go back to normal now that they were gone. That no one else should be distant and cold and walking barefoot through the trees.

Parker notices me looking. He throws a pea at my forehead. "Tate," he says, giving me a soft smile, "Where's your head at?"

It's just me and Parker today. Two people alone at a table meant for seven and I don't understand how that happened or where my friends went. And I try to think of all the people that I know and why none of them are interested in being anywhere near me. "I guess it's just a weird day," I tell him, tearing my gaze away from the empty Cullen table and focus on my half eaten peanut butter and jelly. "My brother's not acting like himself, I guess."

You guess?" Parker asks, his mouth twisting around the words and the sourness of his green apple.

I offer him a shrug. "I dunno. Quil showed up at my place today looking for him cause he's been blowing him off," I explain it like it's simple and like it's nothing but I can't imagine anything that would make my brother ignore his friends and I start to think that something might actually be really wrong. "Embry doesn't really do anything like that."

Parker frowns and he's taking my words and going somewhere else with them. "You were alone with Quil this morning?" he asks, and I can't help but hold back my scoff and he quickly says, "Tatum, you know how uncomfortable that makes me.

Parker is pure and wide-eyed and he has this positive view of the world and I think that's a lot of the reason I like him so much. But it's that positive spin of things that makes him completely incapable of observing anything other than his own discomfort. Everything is good until it doesn't feel good. Everything is good until Parker doesn't feel good. And it's probably fine that Embry's acting weird because sometimes people just need time on their own and it doesn't mean that something bad happened but it's not okay that I shared a moment of concern. But I don't want to fight with him and I don't want to argue that the way he feels and reacts is wrong so I just toss him an easy smile and say, "Sorry, won't happen again."

He's so predictable when he says, "Your brother just probably needs space," that it almost makes me mad. "Embry's not like, the most sociable guy and he probably just wanted to be alone."

I don't have the guts to tell him that it's not really that Embry's not sociable, but that Embry just really doesn't like him. "I hope so," I tell him, eyes drifting back to the empty lunch table.

* * *

Bella's tapping her pencil against her homework and she's smiling like she's somewhere far away from here. And I keep staring, eyes on the slight upturn of her lips while I slouch against my bed frame, fingers lazily tugging at the cords of my bass. And I know I'm being obvious but she doesn't even notice how my gaze has been so intensely fixed on her instead of anything else. I think that I should look away but there's something so striking about the roundness and softness and the happiness in her face. After months of unreachable despondence and then suddenly, this, the joy in her eyes is almost unsettling.

She hasn't written anything on her paper but then again I've only played three cords in the past two minuets. Bella's mind is far away from here and mine is on her and neither one of us seem to have the capability to focus on arbitrary homework assignments. She's been spaced for so long but it was nothing like this, nothing this wistful and light. And I don't mean to sound bitter at my friend's happiness but I start to think about what it is about Jacob Black that could bring Bella back to life in just a few weeks when I couldn't even get her to budge after months. I say to her, "You look a lot better." Bella quirks an eyebrow at my word choice. "Healthier, I mean. You know, not like you haven't slept in over a year."

"I dunno," she says in that breathy voice of hers and she's smiling off to the side again like she's thinking of something very different from me. "I think I just found hobbies that make me feel like, a rush or something. Like I'm living again."

I think of the erratic way she breathed and how her hair fell in her face fell loose and wild in her face after she got off the stranger's bike. "So you're into the rush of things now?" I ask, picking up speed on the cords while I speak. It makes sense; it fits. The girl sat still for long she was becoming stone and now she needs to do something so extreme and so unruly to feel anything at all again. "Jacob Black help you out with that?"

There's a blush that rises to her cheeks and the name brings a fondness to her eyes and it's a feeling I can see but can't place. "Spending time with him is nice," she tells me. "It's like I can forget about all the things that happened and just like, take it easy, y'know? It's not complicated."

Her words are laced with something bitter and painful and secret. Bella is always hiding something under her tongue and I gave up on trying to figure out what it was a long time ago but I know that complicated was the simplest way to describe it. "Sounds nice. Jake's nice."

Bella nods, tapping quicker now as I string together the bass-line of some Mitski song I'm not supposed to be playing. "How are things with you and Parker?"

I frown, sitting up a little straighter and leaning into my instrument. "Pretty fine, I guess. It's just weird. I feel like I like Parker but no one else likes Parker and I don't really know why."

"I like Parker," Bella tells me quickly. "I mean, I don't know him that well but he seems like he treats you really well. I heard that he always said nice things about you. I think he's just a little bit anti-social. Like me, I guess. Didn't mind being alone until you kept making plans with me."

I tilt my head, "Who'd you hear that from?"

And I know the answer by the sudden vacated look in her eyes. The sudden desolation and pain that hits her so rapidly and so visibly. I don't wanna push it but I don't know how Edward Cullen would know what Parker had to say about me. My boyfriend, like most everyone else, stayed away from the pale boy. "Just someone," she says, her voice hushed with the thickness of pain.

I'm trying not to get annoyed. Because she's clearly feeling a pain that is so incomprehensible to me and I know that I have to avoid his memory like I'm stepping over landmines. But sometimes I want to grab her by the shoulders and tell her that Edward Cullen left and that her whole life does not revolve around Edward Cullen and that she can live, not just exist without him. I want to tell her that Bella Swan is Bella Swan and she needs to be able to live and breathe on her own and that her obsession and heartbreak isn't just abnormal but unhealthy and beyond concerning. My fingers are stumbling over the cords and I'm playing too fast and I keep messing up and I can't think of anything to say but, "Oh, okay."

She seems grateful that I dropped it and I think that maybe that's a sign I shouldn't have. I'm drifting off into original music and I can't track where my fingers are going or where they've been and I think that I should've been recording. "Me and Jake are actually building bikes together."

I can't help the scoff that falls from my lips. "Like, what, like dirt bikes?"

The image if Bella on the back of the bike was not lost on me when she said, "Yeah, I wanna learn how to drive them around. I think it would be really fun."

Edward letting must have really twisted and knotted her up because the Bella I knew a year ago, drowning in sweaters with her fingers curled around a worn-down copy of some Bronte book wouldn't have been able to even walk up to a dirt bike without tripping over it, nevermind fixing one up. And I think that this it the most insane post-breakup shit I have ever seen. "Well, if that makes you happy."

Bella's talkative today. She watches me play my bass while she bites down on her lip and she's trying to think of something to say to me. I watch the questions rush through her eyes. "How's the movie going?" she asks suddenly when the question pops into her head. It's nice that she asks, I think, but I wonder if she really cares.

"It's going okay. Vasquez drives me up the fucking wall, but I love her and more importantly, I love her acting skills," I tell her, thinking of the way Mooney forced herself into the diva trope. "Friday we're filming the scene where her character sets a car on fire. My dad's friend works at a junkyard and he's giving us some old beat up car."

Her eyes widen at the idea of it. "How are you gonna set a car on fire, exactly?"

"My brother's gonna help. He knows a lot about cars so he's gonna set up something under the hood to start a small fire and then Wes is gonna go back and make it look huge on like, Premier or something, I dunno. I don't know how that shit works."

"Is it safe?"

I think about the likelihood of her ratting us out to Charlie but then I imagine Charlie's face if he found out Bella was into dirtbike's and random sleezebag's motorcycles. Mutually assured destruction. "No. We bought some fire extinguisher online but it's definitely illegal, so like, don't tell your dad or anything."

Bella scoffs at me, like the idea is absurd. And this is one of the things I like most about Bella. She's no snitch. "And your brother knows what he's doing?"

"So he says."

And there's this lull in conversation while my playing slows and Bella's turning her tongue around in her mouth like she's looking for the right words to say and can't think of the right way to just spit it out. "Jacob said that Embry's been acting weird."

Abruptly, I stop playing and my eyes shoot up towards her. I don't like that Jake's telling her my family business but I guess since he's Em's friend it's kinda his business too. "Yeah, I heard," I tell her, and I start plucking again. "But I haven't seen him a few days. Guess he's just been staying with his mom."

"I heard he's been hanging around Sam Uley and his like, gang. Jake says they're bad news."

I get annoyed quick. I don't like that she knows more about my family than I do and I don't like that she's hearing it from Jacob Black and I don't like that wave of resentment that washes over me. "Bad news?" I don't know much about Sam Uley, or really anything that goes on over at the res. I keep my head tangled up in my own business and I only can grab onto names from stories and gossip told to me by my brother.

She shrugs. "I guess they chased this guy off the reservation for trying to sell meth. They're all about tribal pride and protecting their people."

My eyebrows shoots up. Doesn't really sound like a gang to me. "And that's bad?"

"It's just weird. They act like hall monitors."

I figure Bella's just regurgitating whatever Jake told her and Jake's perspective is probably skewed because he's bitter about being bailed on, so I don't correct her. But I picture my brother, stringy and goofy, trying to protect anyone from anything and the image is almost laughable. Em's a good kid that minds his own business and occasionally he's a dumbass but he's not the type of person to be chasing meth dealers away. It's hard for me to imagine. "I guess we'll find out."

* * *

Embry and my father and sitting at the kitchen table with hunched shoulders and something so tense it hangs heavy in the air. I walk slowly towards them, feet creaking against the wooden floor and as soon as my weight gives away my presence two pairs of dark eyes are sharp and on me.

And as soon as I step into the kitchen I know that I am an intrusion. I know that I am not wanted in the room and I know that Quil is right to worry. Because I have walked into this room countless nights on countless occasions and my brother has never looked at me like he is looking at me now.

It's the first time I've seen him in days and he's looking at me like I am the last person he wants to see and like the sight of me, standing there wide-eyed in the kitchen with my bag hanging off one shoulder and my board under my other arm, was repulsive to him. And the sharpness in eyes his, the bit in his jaw, it is enough to render me speechless, with a sinking grossness in my gut. I don't say anything but neither does Embry. We just stare and I wonder what has happened to him in these past few days for him to muster all this venom for me.

My father speaks first, voice low and sure. "Tatum. I didn't know you'd be home so soon."

His words mean that the only reason he and Embry were here talking was because he thought I wouldn't be here. But here I am, ruining their father-son time. I ignore it. "Hey, Em," I say to my brother, speaking past the harshness of his exterior. "How have you been?"

He looks different. He looks larger and stronger and formidable and nothing like the boy that teased me just a week ago. "Fine," he says simply, voice drenched in annoyance and deeper than I remember.

My throat is tight and dry. "Where've you been? Everyone's been asking."

I can't get any reading on him because when I ask his eyes start to water and that anger and contempt never leaves his face, it just gets more complex. "Don't worry about it."

There's nothing I can say to that, I think. Our father is looking between us, skeptical and unsure about the stiffness in my stance and the way Embry leaned over in his chair. "You still coming to set Friday?" I ask.

This makes him stand. Tower over me. Stare down and glare. "Of course, Tate. What else have I got going on?"

His words are simple but there's something about the way he says them that cuts through me and he storms past me. I think, how is he gonna get home? He doesn't have a car and normally someone drives him but there's no one here and my dad's just sitting still while he stomps off. I look to my father with wide eyes and he gives me a sympathetic look. "Don't take what he says to heart. He's having a rough time, lately."

I don't say anything to my father. I disappear to my room, feeling strange.

* * *

"So where is he?"

I'm leaning against the side of the car, staring at the propped up hood and shaking my head. "I don't know."

Mooney rolls her eyes with her arms crossed tight over her chest and she's looking at me like this is my fault. "Well, he's your brother, and we can't do the scene without him. You said he would be here so I'm just asking-"

"I said I don't fucking know, alright?" I snap. I don't know why I like Mooney and I don't know why I'm so married to the idea of a friendship with her. It seems like she always knows the right thing to say to make my teeth grind.

It's been an hour and Embry's not here and the ocean is whipping ice cold wind in my face and I don't think I can feel anymore. Wes is crossing his arms and it's just us on set today. And I think he's watching the way I'm locking down my jaw and thinking about what to say to take me down a notch. "Tate," he says, voice gentle, "maybe we should just go home."

"Yes, can we _please_ go home. It's freezing and he's obviously not fucking coming."

"Shut _up_ Moon, god, for just like one second," Wes tells her, but in that same softness. And then he turns back to me. "We can always just do the scene later. It's really not that hard to reschedule."

And I don't know why but something in his words and the kindest in them makes me want to scream and snap. "No, Wes, we _can't_ just reschedule. We got a fucking _car._ We got a fucking junk car and we have to set it on _fucking_ fire and it's important and if we just photoshop it it'll look like shit and we need practical effects. What the fuck are we supposed to do with the fucking car? We have to do the fucking scene."

No one says anything for a minute and then there's a hand on my shoulder and I'm surprised to see it's Moon. "Wes can just take it back home and keep it in his garage, Tate. Really, it's not _that_ big of a deal. And it's not your fault your brother stood us up, so let's just go home."

Shaking my head, I look away from them both and stare out in the ocean, watching the grey waves crash against the shore and I suddenly crave summer. "Whatever," I say suddenly, and I want to disappear.

* * *

"You're so far away from here."

It takes a second for Parker's words to hit me. I'm tapping on the table and staring around at the bustling waitresses with trays full of milkshakes and cheesy fries and greasy foods on sticks and I'm trying to focus on simple things. I thought about cancelling on him but I feel like I've been so warped lately that Parker's gotten lost in the madness of it. And I have to remind myself that I really do like Parker and I like the way he treats me and I like being with him. Because I'm so distracted by the way my brother hurt me and the way filming's been a disaster that I'll forget how much I care. "Sorry," I say, because it's all I can say.

He purses his lips, fingers lingering on the sugar dispenser and staring deeply into my eyes and it almost makes me look away. "What's been up with you lately?" he asks like he doesn't know. And he always knows. Parker knows me so well. He knows what's wrong before I do and he knows how to put words on the weight that I feel on my chest.

"You tell me," I say to him, and I mean it.

Parker takes a second, collects his thoughts, and says, "I think you've been feeling pretty insufficient."

I tilt, my head, searching for that feeling somewhere inside of me, trying to unlock it, trying to place that label on any of the unpleasantness inside of me. "Insufficient," I repeat, tasting it.

"I just feel like you put a lot on yourself," he dives right in. "Part of why you're great is because you care so much about so many different things and you always try so hard in everything you do, but sometimes I think that when things don't always go your way, you start to lose.-"

And I don't hear anything else he says. I don't hear his explanations or his theories or his comforts. Because across the restaurant, holed up in a booth, is my brother. He's sitting there, newly broad shoulders hunched over. And wasn't alone. Next to him was someone bigger and broader, with the same black hair of my brother, but cropped and uneven, like he tried to hack it off himself. I stare at the back of his head for a moment, examining the roughness. There are two other faces there, one older, more worn down and one laughing, eyes squinted in amusement and I can't decipher the atmosphere at that table.

It doesn't take long for Parker to realize that I'm not listening anymore and he turns to follow my gaze, eyes stuck on the back of Embry's head for just another moment. He turns to me with a sigh. "Tatum, just let it go. He's obviously going through something right now."

But I'm already standing. "I'm just gonna talk to him real quick," I tell him. "I'll be right back."

My hands are shaking as I approach the table and my gut is all twisted up like I'm scared and I think that's ridiculous because I have never been afraid of my brother before and I've never felt nerves so prominent. And I have to convince myself not to turn around and by the time I start loosing that internal argument I'm already there. I'm standing at the table and I'm staring at my brother and even though I can feel the stares of everyone else there Embry's not looking back at me. "Hey Embry," I say, voice shaking.

His eyes are hard on the table and he looks like he might cry. "Hey Tate," he replies, voice tight.

I'm getting worked up and I'm bouncing on the balls of my feet. "Where've you been?" I ask, and it's the second time I've had to ask my brother this question and it occurs to me that I've never had to care about that before.

Embry looks up at me, eyes black and pained. "I've been doing my own shit, Tatum. Is that okay with you?" he asks in this cutting voice I've never heard or could probably even imagine him using.

"Yeah, that's fine. Obviously that's fine." My fingers are knotting together behind my back and I look up at the ceiling for a second to stop the tears and the bouncing gets worse. "Actually, no. No it's not fine. Because you said that you'd help with my film today and you stood us up and like, we couldn't get anything done. And it's cool if you couldn't come but I wish you had just like, let me know or something. Because it was like, a huge waste of time and we had to get everything set up and take it all down for nothing and it was a lot of work so-"

He cuts me off. "Consider us even for all the times you bailed for your boyfriend."

I'm shaking my head. "It's not really the same, cause like, people actually donated money for this project and you said you would help so if you're wasting our time your wasting our money and that's just like, pretty fucked up."

"Tatum," he says in a low voice, "no one cares about your movie, alright? Like, sorry I didn't show and everything but I actually don't give a shit about your movie, okay?"

I nod my head, tears pricking in the corner of my eyes and I say to my brother, "Alright. Cool. That's fine. Just fuck off and don't talk to me again," I tell him, forcing a smile through the single tear that fell down my cheek. I don't know how to feel and I can't help but notice that I'm crying in front of strangers and I can't spare their faces a glance when I leave and storm past Parker and out of the front doors.

* * *


	5. 04. rejections

* * *

"So, Tatum, let's see. You were rejected by Columbia, Boston University, and Rhode Island School of Design, NYU and UCLA."

I give Mrs. Sandy Michaels a tight smile. "Yeah, I was. Thanks for the reminder."

She shakes her Caesar salad around in its little container, lettuce hitting the plastic with a sound that echoed around in my ears. I think it must be sad to be Sandy Michaels, sitting in this tiny, square office with snot colored walls and a cramped desk, listening to students complain all day about stupid bullshit she couldn't give a fuck about. And then to go home and have her limp dick husband boss her around? I'd be a nasty hag too. "Well, the good news is you got into University of Washington, go huskies! And University of Portland."

"University of Portland has a seventy-five percent acceptance rate."

Sandy purses her lips tightly and leans forward, head titled down at me. "It's a good thing you got in then, isn't it?"

"Okay great! So we're done?" I ask, arms tight around my books. I don't wanna be here. I don't like teachers and I don't like guidance counselors and I think that somehow they like me even less.

She's not gonna let me off so easy, though. "Have you made a decision yet? About what you wanna do next year?"

"No."

She sucks in air through her teeth and leans back in her little swivel chair like she's negotiating with me. "Well, no pressure Tatum, but the clock is ticking."

"That sounds like pressure."

Her salad is flung over and she's stabbing her fork over and over and over and fitting as much romaine lettuce as she can on that little plastic fork. "If that's what it takes to get you to make a decision, then fine, consider it pressure."

Wes greets me in the hall, arms tight around notebooks and textbooks and he's giving me this sympathetic look like he knows it went poorly. "Michaels give you a hard time?"

I give him a look, matching his step as we march off to lunch period like drones. "Michaels always gives me a hard time. Michaels wakes up in the morning and thinks, _what can I do to make Tatum Copeland's life worse? I hate them so much. I hope Tatum Copeland dies today before my meeting with them._ "

He pauses, tilts his head, and says, "Well, at least she doesn't misgender you."

"At least she doesn't misgender me," I agree, thinking of the dozens of teachers who like feminine pronouns slip through their tongues on a daily basis. I think it's pretty sad that I've gotten used to it.

Lunch today is just me and Wes. I like it like this. I like Wes. I think he might be my favorite person. A title that previously belonged to my brother, but now that I feel like I have no idea who he is or what he's all about, I'm latching onto Wes. I think he can tell too. I'm always blowing up his phone now and asking him to hang out and bothering him every time I think there's a chance I might be alone. He doesn't seem to mind, though. He never really has. "Are you leaning towards anything?" he asks, sitting across from me. Again, two people at a table meant for seven. But I think this time I don't mind it as much.

I shrug, pulling a sack lunch of a peanut butter sandwich and a red apple, classic and elementary. "What I really wanna do is _not_ go to school. I didn't get into any of the schools I wanted and I don't wanna waste all my time and money going to a school I didn't care about. Probably just take a year and apply again, I guess."

Wes is already chewing loudly on his lunch, lips smacking together when he says. "You wanna join my band?"

I can't help the snort that escapes me. "You're in a band?" I ask, incredulously. All I see is Wes, lanky and awkward, in his sweaters and cuffed up jeans, standing on a stage and playing for a crowd of crossed-arm indie fucks. He nods proudly. "I dunno how I didn't know that. What'd ya play?"

"Drums," he says. "My friend Griffin is on lead guitar and this guy Forrest does rhythm and lead vocals. We had a bass player but he was a douchebag but we kicked him out. He fucked Griffin' s girlfriend."

I sound disgusted when I say, "You're in a band with two dudes names Griffin and Forrest? God, what'd you play? Garage indie rock?"

He leans back in his chair and stretches his limbs out. "We're like a combination of Dead Kennedy's and Joyce Manor."

I take a bit out of my apple. "Title Fight."

Wes halts. "We're not that good." And then, after a moment, "But we could be, if you joined as our bassist."

I picture it for a moment. Me, onstage with my instrument, plucking the E string until my fingers bleed. Crowds of fifteen. People pushing each other to the ground and slamming into walls at the sound of the songs we play. Trying to sell Sandy Michaels a ten dollar C.D after I tell her I didn't go to college after all. It's appealing. I toss it around in my brain. "Maybe," I tell him. "Let me meet your guys first, alright?"

* * *

My notebook is empty in front of me and it's quiet. Quiet except for the wind and quiet except for the crashing of waves on the shore and quiet except for the heavy laughter that is carried in the wind and dropped at my feet.

My notebook is empty in front of me and I can't think of anything to put it in. I can't think of anything except for the fact that, after ignoring me for so long, my brother is toppling over the side of a cliff, shirtless in the freezing cold. He knows I always come here, whenever my head is too full and I need to empty it. He doesn't know I'm here.

I don't care.

I don't care about the way he laughs as he's falling over the side of the cliff for the fifth time and I don't care that he looks happier without me around. His laughter rings in my ears. I wonder if he lost pieces of himself the first time he jumped.

The rest of them are up there, laughing with their heads peering off the edge, watching as my brother disappears into a splash of ice cold ocean water. I examine them. Noting all the ways they are similar. Noting all the ways they are different. I don't know them. I don't know anything about them but suddenly, for the first time in my life, when my eyes are trained on the one with rough cut hair, I am filled with such an intense and overwhelming feeling of hatred, I start to feel like a different person.

* * *

I smell the ocean in the air. It seeps into my skin and dries me out and I'm wondering what I'm doing here, sitting in Jake's garage, feeling invisible.

I'm not really sure what compelled me to accept Bella's invitation to join her down at the Black's house and I'm even less sure as to why she would invite me in the first place. I think that maybe she saw the way the bags under my eyes were hanging heavier and figured I needed something to distract me from my thoughts. But there's nothing distracting, or even remotely fun, about being ignored by two people who seem completely unaffected by my presence.

Bella was by my side, sending me warm glances and comforting statements until the second Jacob Black was in her line of sight. She was in his arms, giggling and getting twirled and squeezed and immediately forgetting about me. From then on it was like I wasn't there.

They actually didn't talk much. Jake worked on the engines in silence while Bella watched with careful eyes, fixated on the way his hands moved without much thought. And there was something about the way she watched him that had me transfixed, too. I never really gave Jake any extra thought or gave him any special considerations but Bella's eyes lingered on him, warm and glossy, that made me think there was something special about him.

It was almost the opposite of the way I felt when Bella used to look at Edward with those wide eyes of wonder. It didn't put me on edge. It didn't make me wanna step in between the two of them or bare my teeth at him until he disappeared but instead it made me feel that Bella was safe. When she looked at Jake, Bella looked like someone who had just seen and felt the warmth of the sun after a long and biting winter.

Occasionally, she would ask him what he was doing and what the placement of certain screws and the removal of others meant. Jake would explain, simply and briefly and in hopes that she would understand. And I don't know if she ever did, but I definitely didn't.

And because they're so entranced in each other and their movements they're so oblivious to me and I wonder if they'd notice if I left or not. I think about it. About just getting up and leaving and going off to do something else somewhere that's not cold and soaked in salt water that dries my skin. Because I have a lot to do and a lot to get done and it's been almost two hours of me being ignored and it's beyond a waste of time. But everytime I will myself to stand and leave, I stay.

I stay, sitting on my fingers and staring on the grey floor of the garage. I keep replaying the last time I saw my brother in my head and I keep trying to think of all the different ways it could've went down. I imagine different words falling out of my tongue and my eyes remaining dry and he would introduce me to his friends and they would become my friends and he would give me some sort of explanation for his distancing and we would mend this, whatever it is.

Em and me had always been close. And we never really fought as kids; I mean, nothing beyond petty disputes over couch territory and coveted front seat dibs but there was nothing that ever divided us this deeply. Me and Embry were a team, a brother and sibling force united against unstable parenting. And I couldn't imagine anything that could've split us so suddenly. I can't think of anything I had done that was so offensive and so abhorrent that it turned my brother into this person with such knotted anger.

My father didn't seem to care. Lane Copeland, with his sullen eyes and sunken cheeks and faux wisdom just shook his head and told me to leave Embry alone and to give him time to adjust. And I think maybe I was stupid for ever asking my dad for help in the first place.

The only thing keeping me from drifting off into the clouds is the cold. It's numbing and thick and layers deep; soaked into my jacket and my sweater and my jeans. I don't know how Bella and Jake stay out here all day with their fingers exposed and working against cold metal.

Dry and cracking lips. Biting cold air. Metal grinding on metal. That persistent feeling that I'm intruding on a moment not meant for me. I don't wanna be here. I don't dwell on it for long, just stand and grab my board and walk outside and I expect that no one will notice enough to stop me but it still twists me up when no one says anything. I walk out into the open and then stop. I turn back around.

"Hey, I think I'm gonna head home," I call to the both of them, and they whip their heads back in my direction. Their eyes are wide like they just remembered I'm there.

Bella takes a couple seconds to react to this, emotions clear on her face as she goes from confusion to guilt and she asks, "Oh, are you sure? If you wanna go I can just give you a ride back home. You don't have to wait for me."

Jake frowns, and he looks at me with this pleading eyes like, _please say no,_ and I think that it was stupid for me to come out here in the first place. Because I guess I had always had an idea that there was something more between the two of them that she was letting on, I just really had no idea how bad it was until I saw it with my own eyes. So I hold my board above my head and say, "I like this way more. I'll be fine."

"Hey, can you do a kickflip?" Jake asks suddenly, talking to me for the secnd time today.

I scoff, dropping my board on the ground and riding out of his garage with an eyeroll. And as soon as I'm on four wheels the ice cold air is worse, pinching and burning my cheeks and my nose but the gravel is smooth and I'm gone.

I like the streets on the res. They're smooth and paved better than the pot-hole ridden streets of Forks.

I don't hate my hometown. I've never been the type to lust after vertical cities and exposed brick and indie coffee shops on every block. And even though I've been kicking myself for not getting into NYU, I'm homesick at the _idea_ of being across the country for eight months out of the year. I didn't take after my mother, in that way. There was something about the familiarity and tightness of Forks that appealed to me, but it never satisfied me. Like I never really belonged there. I felt more at home on the res and I wonder what my life would be like if my dad stayed at his home instead of drifting for a woman that couldn't stay in one place for more than a year and I wonder if he knew this is how it would be.

My hands are deep in the pockets of my jacket and I'm staring at the smooth ground in front of me, head down to block out the wind. The streets are empty and there's no sound but my wheels against the gravel. I sink back into that feeling, that comfort of wonder that only comes from the wind tangling my hair behind me.

I feel best when my thoughts go silent and I'm lost in the way everything feels. My eyes close. I feel the salt in the air sticking to my skin. I feel the roots of my hair lifting and the ends knotting and whipping. I feel the breath of clouds fanning out over my cheeks. I feel light. I feel weightless. I feel my nose slam into some hard. I feel my board whip out from under my feet. I feel my ass hit the ground.

Groans fall my from lips as I run my head and think _what the fuck is that? Where the fuck is my board?_ And I think my nose might have broken and I think that maybe I slammed into a tree that grew in the middle of the street. "What the fuck?" I asked myself in a low voice while pain vibrates from my nose.

And from above me, he speaks. Voice deep and rumbling and filled with something that reminds me of my brother. "Fuck, are you okay? "

The first question I ask myself is, _Holy fuck that was a person?_ The second is, again, _Where the fuck did my board go?_ And the third, when I look up towards the source of that low voice is again, _What the fuck?_ I think I say it out loud but it's gentler, coated in something thick.

I think I'm falling again when I look into his eyes and I don't know what's there to catch me but I never even land. For a second I forget who I am and what's going on because when I look into this kid's eyes this like the world's settings got jacked up. He's rough. He has pale scars on his face and this lingering snarl on his lip but I'm examining his eyes and they're soft and widened and there's this gentleness to them that leaves me thinking that this is the most beautiful person I've ever seen.

And then it's not just his eyes but the fullness of his lips and the point of his jaw and the way his nose hooks out from his face and I think, for a moment, that I could spend all of my time staring at him. In this instant there's nothing more I wanna do than ask him questions. I wanna know his name and his sign and I wanna know what he does when he's bored and what he wants to do in two years and how he likes his coffee and I forget, for a second, the throbbing in my nose.

But then he speaks.

I almost don't notice when that serenity in his eyes vanishes, replaced a pained disgust that nearly snaps me in two. He says, to me or to the world, "Not fucking _you."_

And then it's all gone. It was only there for a second but that fascination was so strong and so instant that that harshness of that rejection spreads through me like a fire and I can hear the word _insufficient_ echoing around in my head. I'm blinking and I'm struggling and I'm stuttering. "What?" I finally ask, too aware of just how stupid I sound.

He trembles, unreadable. He shakes his head and looks back and forth between me, balled up on the cold ground, and the line of trees on the opposite side of the street. And then, with this groan like he's being forced to do something, he leans down and wraps his hand around my arm and I can feel the warmth from his hand even over all these layers and he's flinging me in the air and onto my feet. I feel breathless and confused and there's something painful I can't make sense of. "Just," he starts, and then sighs, "just watch where you're going, alright?"

He's gone just as soon as he's there, running away from me and as he goes I examine the roughness of his hair, unevenly chopped and I know who he is and I still think he's a dream.

My board is split in half, resting in peace at the bottom of a fir.

* * *

Moon's flipping through dark hoodies with distaste, manicured fingers barely touching the fabric as she skims through the selection. "I can't believe people still dress like this. This one says, _pop punk and pizza._ I wasn't aware it was still cool to pretend eating pizza is unique."

"This is the only place that sells halfway decent boards. And I found out the hard way that duck taping two halves of one board does not a skateboard make, so unfortunately I have to give this establishment my money," I inform her, eyes skimming over the different displays. I'm thinking about just jumping over the counter, grapping one, and tossing cash their way.

"Why don't you just order one online? You could probably find one super cheap. Way cheaper than jacked up Mom and Pop prices."

I roll my eyes. "Mom and Pop prices are jacked up _because_ of online shopper. And, by the way, I'd rather spend more money than get a cheaper version that was made in some Chinese sweatshop. I prefer to shop guilt-free."

Moon snorts and abandons her sweatshirt examination. "Whatever. Some of us don't get money from out absentee parents and don't really have a _choice_ as to whether or not we get to shop guilt-free. Congratulations on being rich, though."

I flick the side of her head but I don't say anything because she's right. My mother may have abandoned my but her bank account didn't. And every month it fill up with fifteen hundred more dollars and I wonder what the fuck she's doing out there to be making that much money. And while I'm over here getting paid for nothing, Moon serves tables five nights a week to help buy groceries for her five younger siblings.

She doesn't bring it up often. It's embarrassing, she tells me, and we both pretend that I don't help her pay for her shit all the time.

"Why don't you just make that dreamboat guy that's totally real and not made up pay for it?" she asks, casually, and I throw daggers in her direction. "What? I just think it's more plausible that you busted trying to do some wild trick than you ramming your face into some shirtless male model. Besides, knowing you, if he was real, you'd probably track him down and demand payment in cash."

I don't know if I would or not but I know that I'm not going to. "He's one of Embry's new friends. And I guess because Embry now thinks I'm a self-centered piece of shit, I can't imagine what's he's managed to convince his new buddies about me. He probably thinks I'm some blood drinking they-demon."

"God, you can be so cringey sometimes."

I know what board I want and I just want someone to show up and take my money so I can get the hell out of here. I definitely don't want to be in this too-hot store with Mooney asking me details about _him._ She wasn't helping the fact that I couldn't stop thinking about him and how unbelievably _furious_ it made me. I had barely spoken to him. He shouldn't have had this much on an impact on my life. But I kept replaying the moment his eyes narrowed in disgust when he realized who I was. The way he spit out his words at me. The way it made me feel like something ripped. Something that I didn't know was there before but now that I know it was, I mourned the loss of it. He hated me, from the instant he saw me. Took in my appearance. Registered my face. And hated me.

And that made me hate him. Because more than anything else, I felt humiliation. Humiliation that, for a second, for a moment, I was so deeply enamored and so deeply mesmerized that I forgot a life outside of him. Humiliation that I was in awe of someone who hated me before he ever saw me. Hated me so much that when he recognized who I was, he exclaimed in disgust, _"Not fucking you."_

His voice echoes in my head, low and soothing like the cords I play and I wish I could get it out of my head somehow. I don't even know his name. All I know is the rough and jagged cut of his hair and his hatred for me.

Someone familiar shows up, skinny and pimply and they hand me the board I want and ask, "Do you know how to attach the trucks?"

He asks me this every time. And every time I throw my cash on the table, grab the board, and snarl, "Yeah, I know how to attach the trucks."


	6. 05. snacks

I'm in a band.

And it's weird, because, for whatever reason, I thought that being in a band would mean writing songs and playing my bass and occasionally providing backing vocals in someone's garage. But, apparently, being in a band means arguing. It means arguing _a lot._ And I'm sitting in the back of Griffin's car (and I'm like, eighty-percent positive this kid hates me), listening to my new bandmates yell over each other while we drive to the gas station to get band practice gas station snacks.

"We are a _punk band._ We play _punk music_ and do punk shit and that's what we've always been," Wes is arguing from his spot in the front seat and he's slapping his hands on his thighs for dramatic effect but he's doing it offbeat and I'm starting to wonder about his ability as a drummer. "Now all the sudden you wanna change our sound?"

Griffin's not very good at driving in the first place but this discussion's not helping and he's starting to swerve a little. "Punk is dead, Wes! No one listens to new punk bands anymore. Every single good punk band broke up or died before the twenty-first century. Hyperpop is where it's at."

" _Hyperpop?_ Are you _insane?"_ Wes yells back at him and I've never seen him this angry. "What, are we just supposed to all learn how to work a synthesizer now? Are you gonna get on a keyboard, Griffin? Gonna make Forest sing three octaves above his register? We're not doing hyperpop."

"You know what this is, right? I'm trying to bring our band into modern sounds and play with trends, and you're holding me back with your elitist concepts of subgenre. This is gonna be the demise of our band."

And while they were yelling back and forth at each other, I'm sitting in the back, no seatbelt with my feet kicked up on the middle of the backseat with Forest sitting across from me. He tosses me a scoff. "They're arguing over a band that doesn't even have a name," he says easily, and then looks at me like the sight of me surprises him. "Hey, do you like riot grrrl? I feel like we could be a good riot grrrl band."

"I don't squeal," I tell him surely. "Besides, none of us are girls."

From the driver's seat, Griffin turns around for a second and looks at me like I have two heads. "You don't have to be a girl to have a riot grrrl band. That's like the whole point of the genre, right? Gender inclusion."

Wes interjects with a quick, "If you think that's what riot grrrl is, then you have no business being in a riot grrrl band."

"'Girl' is literally in the name of the genre. We can't be a riot grrrl band with literally no girls in the band," I tell him, almost surprised at how someone could have such a bold interpretation of a entire subgenre. "Also, riot grrrl is a punk subgenre and you were _literally_ just saying we shouldn't play punk. Also, I don't squeal."

Forest says, "What if we did ska?" like it was an actual good idea.

"Why don't we just like, write one song first? Just one, tiny original song?" I suggest, half sarcastic. "It doesn't even have to be good, really."

"You're the _bass_ player," Griffin says from the front seat and I think that I've known these guys for probably about four hours and we're already arguing like we've known each other our whole lives and I can't tell if that's a really bad sign or a really good one. "You're literally gonna play like, two notes a song."

I kick my feet down and lean forward. "I can probably play your little guitar better than you. Watching you try to land notes is like watching a toddler trying to fit their little star shaped toy through the square shaped hole. I can play _Tommy Cat."_

This brag earned a groan from everyone in the car. "We _know,_ Tatum," Wes complained from the front.

"Brought it up like fifteen times."

"Like we get it, you can slap the bass."

"Y'know, what are you bringing into this band, Wes?" Griffin said suddenly, like something just occurred to him. He took his hand off the wheel and gestured back to me. "Like, what is this? What is that shirt? Please explain to me this shirt."

Gaping, I looked down at my large green shirt and glared up at the boy. "This shirt is hilarious. This is the best shirt I own."

Forest lean forward and read the words across my chest. " _'Women want me; fish fear me.'"_ He paused, pursing his lips. "It's a good shirt."

Wes rolled his head over towards the driver's seat. "It's a pretty good shirt, dude."

"Frankly, I don't trust your artistic judgement if you're over here criticizing _my_ shirt when you're dressed like an extra from the _mid90s_ set."

"The nineties are _in!"_

And this went on for a while. The bickering and the jumping from one argument to another until Griffin finally admitted that all the arguing kept him from remembering to turn at the right time and we had been fighting in that car for an unnecessary twenty minutes. My head hurts and my voice is raw from the yelling so I don't complain when they tell me I have go in and get all the practice snacks because I'm the new one.

I'm standing in the middle of the isle and I have Snowballs and Hot Fries and three Dr. Pepper's in my hands and I'm trying to figure out if I should get Skittles or Cheetos. The guy at the counter watches me with unimpressed and bored eyes while I drop what's in my arms on the counter and make my way back over to the fridges to grab myself an energy drink or three.

Rows of colorful drinks stare back at me and I'm trying to plan my weeks out now. Band practices happen three times and week, always at night, and run till eleven. That leaves four days to film and we have about an hour left to film and I don't know how I'm gonna space this out.

And that stupid car scene still needs to get done but I don't wanna talk to Embry again and I'm not gonna talk to Embry again because the idea of him makes me more mad than I have ever been and I know that's not really saying much but still it's so unfamiliar to me. I grab three energy drinks and I shut the door and I decide to get Skittles because I'm stressed and I deserve them and he's there.

It takes me a second to register his presence. He's standing there, blocking the path to pay with his broad shoulders and jagged haircut and he's looking down at me and when I see his eyes I feel like I'm falling again for about three seconds before I remember who he is. "Umm," I start, looking back and forth between him and the rest of the store and I don't know what's going on and why he's just staring at me.

"Hey," he says easily, and his voice sounds different from before. It sounds softer and more controlled and he's so tall it seems impossible. "Um, I'm Paul."

I don't know if I'm confused or angry but I would really like to leave and not figure out which one it is and I feel like Paul is a really weird name for someone so young. I tap on my foot and say, "Okay?"

Neither of us move and he just says, "You're Tatum, right? You're Embry's sibling?"

"Yeah, that's me. Can you, um, can you move please? I have pay."

But he doesn't seem interested in doing so. "I've heard a ton about you from Embry," this Paul character says like it's a good thing and I wonder if he forgot the first time we met. "I'm one of his friends."

"Oh, yeah! I remember you! You're the one who knocked me off my skateboard and made it snap half, and then you cussed me out!" I said in a faux excitement, pointing at him like the memory just came back to me. I dropped my smile and said, "Move please."

This guy steps out of my way but he follows me while I walk up to the counter and he says, "I can make you a new board if you want."

"I already bought a new one," I tell him, yanking cash out from my pocket and throwing it down on the counter while the man gathered up my pile of sugar into a plastic bag.

He's standing behind me and for a second he stammers. "Well, maybe I could take you on a date, to make up for it."

I stop, plastic bag looped around my wrist and I look up at him with disbelieving eyes. "You're asking me on a date right now?"

Paul smiles at me. It's a dazzling smile and it's confident it makes my heart beat a little faster in my chest and for whatever reason that makes me hate him more. "Yeah."

"No," I answer, and I push past him and make my way towards the door.

Griffin's honking the horn when I step out of the door and I know I'm taking a while but Paul's long stride matches mine and he says, "Well, why not?"

I stop, ignoring the honking of the horn and I look up at him because he's so impossibly tall and I tell him, "I have a boyfriend."

He narrows his features like this news is shocking and upsetting and I'm trying to track the emotional history of his guy from the time I met him and it makes my head hurt. "A _boyfriend?"_

"Yeah, a boyfriend," I confirm, and then add for good measure, "I also think you're kind of a douche."

"Hey!" the sound of Wes's yell makes my head turn. He's leaning out the window of the car and Forest is standing behind him with his arms crossed over his chest. "Is this guy bothering you, Tate?"

I stare down Wes and Forest, who have skinny arms and skinny legs and then I turn and look at this kid Paul, who is tall and has muscles that look like they're about to pop from his shirt and he's scowling at Wes and Forest and I look back at them and suddenly Forest is shaking his head and yelling back, "That's fine. You can keep bothering them, it's cool."

I roll my eyes and walk towards the car with a stride I hope is confident and try not to look behind me and I realize that I forgot my Skittles.

* * *

I scream. I'm not above it.

Parker looks at me with wide and horrified eyes and I don't have the decency to feel shame over it. Because I _hate_ driving. I hate is so much and I hate everyone else that has the audacity to be on the road at the same time as me. My hands are tight on the wheel and I've been pulled over on the side of this road for about five minutes now because I guess I can't do anything but scream and _almost_ get into car accidents. Almost. "Why don't you just let me drive the rest of the way?" Parker asks, trying to sound more calm than he was. The kid's rattled. I hear it in his voice.

My hands are rubbing against my eye sockets and tangling in the roots of my hair. "I can't even drive ten _minutes_ without almost killing someone," I complain, making no move to get out of the driver's seat. "This is stupid. Why did you make me drive? You know I can't drive," I ask of my boyfriend, who is now scoffing at the notion that this is all his fault.

"Tate, you need to learn how to drive. You're eighteen and you're the only senior that can't drive," he argues, looking at me like I'm being difficult for no reason and I'm over here _choosing_ to be abysmal at driving around in a metal box. I give him wide eyes, and he relents with a sigh. "Okay, fine, do you want me to drive the rest of the way?"

With a shameful feeling in my gut, I rip my seatbelt off and crawl over to the passenger seat while Parker pushes the door open with a huff. I watch him walk around the front of the car, shaking his head. Sometimes I don't know if I'm immature or if Parker is stiff but there's some sort of disconnect there that makes me feel like a pouting child instead of a significant other. Not being able to drive doesn't really help, either.

He starts the car and I'm leaning my head against the window as we drive through the town and I think that I've been harsh on Parker lately and I don't know why. And the word _insufficient_ is rattling around in my brain like it's the only word I've ever heard and there's nothing I can think of to explain but everything just doesn't feel like _enough_ right now. Like there's something I'm missing. It has me on edge and it has me harsh and I think that maybe it has something to do with my brother and his weird little group of friends. Or maybe it has to do with the fact that Bella Swan hasn't talked to me in days and Jacob Black has been able to accomplish what I couldn't do for months in like, three weeks. Either way, I feel short-circuited.

Parker drives down the street like it's nothing and we pass houses and cars and he doesn't freak out when they get too close and he can drive without swerving or going to slow and I close my eyes and I try to imagine myself somewhere else.

* * *

Sometimes I like to do nothing.

It's rare, because there's always something and and it's always a lot and I get overwhelmed at the idea of not doing something. But even for me and my ever present need to be consumed by _something_ , it can get too much. So I wrap myself up in a blanket and I drink hot tea and I turn on movies I don't care about to fall asleep on the couch too. And I can only do this for about two hours before I start to feel like my chest is tightening and the anxiety pushes me to be productive again.

My eyes are halfway closed and my tea is sitting on the coffee table in front of me getting cold and I'm halfway through some movie I don't know the plot of when Embry stomps through the kitchen and into the living room and stares down at me and suddenly doing nothing is off the table and I'm sitting up straight. He's in the doorframe, leaning up against it and arms crossed over his chest and he says to me, "Hey Tate. Can we talk?"

"No," I huff, trying to sound tough as I possibly cold wrap up in a fluffy blanket. "I told you I'm not talking to you."

"You're talking to me right now."

"Fuck off."

Embry sighs. He doesn't look like my brother anymore; Embry looks older and like there's something in his eyes he lost and can't get back. I think that I wasn't so goddamn mad at him for blowing me off and being a dick about it, I'd try to help him, somehow. I think about what Bella Swan told me and how she thinks Em's in a cult or a gang and I look at him and he just seems tired. "You should come to our bonfire this weekend."

I squint my eyes in incredulity. "I'm not going to your bonfire. I _literally_ hate you right now."

"You don't hate me."

"Right now I do."

"Just come," he resolves, looking at me with pleading eyes. "Guys at the res wanna meet you and I think it would be a break from being a clinically insane person with a to-do list that's six million do's long."

I wave my hands around in this wild and aggressive motion and I say, "I don't _want_ to meet the guys at the res and I _like_ my to-do list. You've been a huge dick to me and I don't wanna spend time with you and you haven't even apologized and you look stupid and I hate you."

But Embry flashes his teeth at me in a big and goofy smile and says, "Please?" and he doesn't flinch when the pillow from the couch hits him in the face.

* * *

" _Please_ come with me I am _literally_ begging you."

Bella sighs, tangling the roots of her hair in her hands and she's resting her elbow on the cafeteria table and I know she wants to say no, but I'm not stopping until she agrees. "I thought you were fighting with your brother," she says in response.

I sigh. "Yeah, but he said he'll help with the car scene before we go and it's not like I'm gonna be mad at him forever."

"I dunno. Jacob says those guys are bad news-"

"My brother, you mean," I correct her. And Bella doesn't have siblings so I guess I have to let it slide because she really doesn't understand the concept that I can talk as much shit about Embry as I want and she and Jacob Black just can't.

"Well, just like Sam and Jared and Paul."

And I don't know about Sam and Jared but Paul I met twice and both times he pissed me off but I'm not going to agree with her right now, either out of spite or my desperation to not go out alone. "My brother's friends."

She lets out a heavy breath. "You know what I mean."

"I don't," I tell her in a sweet-coated voice that tastes as fake as it sounds. "Just _come._ You haven't spend like, any time with me ever since you started hanging out with Jacob." I almost feel bad for pulling that card on her from the way she flinches at the words but it's true, and she did the same thing when she became infactuated with Edward Cullen. I don't bring that up to her, but I think she knows it's a pattern of hers. "It's literally just like, one night too. And it won't even be that bad. It might even be like, I dunno fun maybe?"

"Wow, Tate, you're really fucking selling that," Moon says as a greeting, slamming her lunch tray down on the table and sitting in between me and Bella. "What super cool and super fun outing have you planned this time?"

Bella's face twists like she's uncomfortable. And I get it, Bella's crowd's more Angela Webber and her little group and Moon is just _a lot_ for a person. "I'm trying to convince Bella to go to a bonfire with me at the res."

Moon stabs a vegetable with her plastic little fork and says, "Will your brother be there?"

"Yeah, he'll be there."

"I'm going. Your brother's hot and I have the weekend off."

I turn towards Bella and give her a little suggestive shrug. "Mooney's coming."

"You don't even _want_ to go!"

"Yeah, but now I have to," I argue back, thinking that spending my time around unnamed band was making me just a little bit better at arguments, "because Mooney's coming and she can't go alone. She doesn't know anyone there and it'd be weird. I'm not gonna bail on my friend like that."

"Yeah, Bella," Moon says, mostly uninterested and unfocused. And I think that maybe she just likes to mess with Bella Swan a little bit. "You never hang your friends to die out like that. Even if they are as annoying as Tatum."

The girl in question looks around the cafeteria like she's looking for a way out and I notice the way her eyes stop and hover over the old and empty Cullen table and she says in defeat, "Fine."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyone reading this lmao

**Author's Note:**

> cross posted on ff.net


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